


To Submit

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Shame, Spanking, mindless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 20:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: He needs her to do his bidding.





	To Submit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



Her jaw was set in a way that was completely foreign to her countenance and, because of this, the expression was completely intoxicating. 

Petyr could not help the slow creep of a smile from overtaking her face, which only seemed to heighten her resolve. “I will not,” she said, voice cracking only the barest amount. He was certain that most others would not see the break but he did; he was in tune with her, he _knew_ her. 

He wondered if she suspected how he could dismantle her. The slight bow of her head when he rose from his seat to round his desk told him that she did; he felt his spine straighten at the thought. 

“And why will you not?” he asked when he came to her side. She was taller than him by a few inches and yet she did not pull herself to her full height, did not meet his gaze. Instead she stared, unblinking, at the desk where her hands rested lightly, her face tight with control. 

He couldn’t stand this defiance. It raised something old and dark within him, something that he could not control. His hand struck out, grasping her narrow chin and forcing her to stare at him.

Alayne’s eyes did not waver but her mouth did, and there was something so lovely about that moment of weakness. He wanted to kiss her then and there, devour her, but he knew he had to regain the upper hand.

“He’s just a boy,” was her answer. Her voice was nothing more than a whisper but it was not weak, he had to give her that. There was a level of control in it that was well-practiced and he knew it was all because of him.

Was it wrong to feel a swell of pride? He felt it often enough in her presence, when he watched the old habits of a Stark fall away from her and a new, twisted woman emerge, a woman that was all of his making. He had seen what she could become and used his skills to pull it out of her, to create and polish her. Why should he not feel pride for recognizing talent, for doing what he knew others could not? She would have wasted away if not for him, would have ended up poisoned or bleeding and destroyed, and he was not about to let her flounder at this early stage. She could be great, he saw that, she just needed a firm hand. 

“As was Joffrey, once.” He let the answer, the implication, hang in the air. Sweetrobin did not, would not, have Joffrey’s level of power but there was so much _off_ about he boy that he could install that fear. He saw it in her face, in the brief hollow look that crossed her eyes. But it was not enough, for she seemed certain to defy him this afternoon. 

“He is not Joffrey.” With a shake of her head she let go of his grip, and that was it.

He moved his hand to her waist, fingers digging into the fine silk, the flesh beneath. A small noise escaped her lips, short and sweet to his ears though the meaning was lost to him. He had her, pinned beside him, her eyes wide and mouth slightly open, and wasn’t that a glorious sight?

“Why must you defy your father so?” The words were little more than a purr on his tongue, and he felt that as sharply, as deeply, as she must have. He enjoyed the false title more than he everthought he would and found it best not to reflect on the why.

He pushed her forward so that she was bent over his desk, the very picture of obscenity. He chose to enhance it by pulling up her skirts so that her stockings, her creamy white thighs, were exposed. 

Alayne shirked but did nothing to pull away. Petyr used his free hand to cover her mouth, lest some sharp-eared servant could hear, and lightly scratched his fingers across the tops of her stockings. 

“Do you doubt you father, sweetling?” His words low he rose his hand, pushed aside her skirts to get to her smallclothes. She moaned against his palm as he pulled them down, roughly, exposing the round, perfect globes of her arse to the air. The moan, the sight, went straight to his cock and he took a moment to collect himself, lest he go to far with this little game. 

Petyr ran his hand over the unmarred flesh, searching for any past signs of this act. She had long-since healed, it appeared, and that was perhaps why she disobey him so. 

Without prelude he rose his hand and gave her bottom a hard smack. She screamed against his hand, welts appeared from his rings, and he took a shuttering breath. 

“Will you still not do as you are told?” he asked and, getting no answer, he delivered another and another smack to her arse, until the white skin bloomed red. She gasped and struggled and yet she rose her hips, parted her legs in such a way that the wet treasure that lay between was open to his gaze. 

He groaned when he saw it, smelled it; he could not help it. He was aware she probably took that as some small sign of victory of her own but he did not care. He pressed against her, the heavy weight of his clothed cock against her hip, and ran his fingers down the virgin slit. 

There was tears on her face, he could feel them on his hand. When he pressed a finger forward, entered her, he felt her whole body tremble with a moan. 

_She loves this_. The thought brought him nothing but pleasure. The prim and perfect girl, ruined against his desk, allowing him this obscene pleasure. He drew his finger out, marveling at the wetness of her cunt, the tightness, the way she pressed against him. 

“Will you still do nothing?” he asked as he slowly began to fuck her. He was staring at her face the whole time. Pressed against the wood, gagged by his hand, eyes red, she was indeed a lovely sight. 

She shook her head and he drew his hand from between her thighs. The scream that accompanied this action rattled him, almost made her spend within his breeches. 

“Yes!” was her muffled cry and in a flash he was back on her, one finger and then two buried deep within her as he played with her clit, called her obscene names, and made her break under him. A wet, panting, mess she became, boneless against his desk, and it was too much for him. He unlaced himself and took his prick in hand, and with a few short strokes hand spent himself against the embroidery of her dress. 

What a lovely pair they made.

As his breath returned he removed his hand from her and she gasped for air. Shame was filling her, he knew; he saw it in the blush that creep down her neck. He wished he has a talent for drawing so that he could capture this moment in time, preserve it for those nights when he was kept from her and she filled every thought in his mind. 

“See how your father rewards you?” he asked, as he righted himself. She rose from the desk, silk falling against ruined skin, and looked him straight in the eye.

“Yes father.” 


End file.
